 | Letters of Laura D'Auverne |  |
LETTER FIRST. MARCH 23.
Marriage! when was Marriage happy? I am weary of this yoke—
Weary of this bland deception—this mere counterfeit—this cloak;
Oh! dear Bertha, never marry, never shackle life's poor span
With those vows that link you ever to exacting, selfish Man!
Weary of this bland deception—this mere counterfeit—this cloak;
Oh! dear Bertha, never marry, never shackle life's poor span
With those vows that link you ever to exacting, selfish Man!
Love! you should have heard his raptures,—heard those silver-wooing chords—
Passion-breathing, soul-enthralling, as his life hung on my words;
Oh! to hear him, Woman's advent was the advent of a grace
That lent lustre unto Heaven, and gave language to earth's face.
Passion-breathing, soul-enthralling, as his life hung on my words;
Oh! to hear him, Woman's advent was the advent of a grace
That lent lustre unto Heaven, and gave language to earth's face.
10
She—'twas she—that, like the morning, scatter'd gladness as she came;
Nature wreath'd her path with sweetness, wrote on every flower her name;
Music at her first fond whisper thrill'd and trembled into birth;
Beauty languished to be like her, Truth to imitate her worth!
Nature wreath'd her path with sweetness, wrote on every flower her name;
Music at her first fond whisper thrill'd and trembled into birth;
Beauty languished to be like her, Truth to imitate her worth!
Oh! dear Bertha, could you fancy angel breathings, such as these,
Ending in a marriage discord, like a wild cat o'er the keys?
Such a storm I've just escaped from;—but of course you know D'Auverne,
Know his obstinate ill-humour—know his pride;—but you shall learn.
Ending in a marriage discord, like a wild cat o'er the keys?
Such a storm I've just escaped from;—but of course you know D'Auverne,
Know his obstinate ill-humour—know his pride;—but you shall learn.
If I have a passion, Bertha, 'tis to mount the graceful steed,
Curb his haughty pace elastic, check his hot and dashing speed;
But D'Auverne abhors it—hates it!—Would you think a man of sense
Could be so perverse as hate it?—Truth is, dear, he hates expense!
Curb his haughty pace elastic, check his hot and dashing speed;
But D'Auverne abhors it—hates it!—Would you think a man of sense
Could be so perverse as hate it?—Truth is, dear, he hates expense!
11
Well, it ended in a quarrel. “Think you, sir,” I said to him,
“That each wish I should surrender to make triumph for your whim;
There are ladies round me, thousands, who have horses they may ride,
With attendants ever ready; wherefore, then, am I denied?”
“That each wish I should surrender to make triumph for your whim;
There are ladies round me, thousands, who have horses they may ride,
With attendants ever ready; wherefore, then, am I denied?”
As he rose, I rose and pass'd him, proudly, as I would command,
But he stepp'd all pale, and held me with an agitated hand,
And with quivering lip he murmur'd—“There's no pain this heart endures
Like the pain of thus denying any hope or wish of yours!
But he stepp'd all pale, and held me with an agitated hand,
And with quivering lip he murmur'd—“There's no pain this heart endures
Like the pain of thus denying any hope or wish of yours!
“If you love me Laura, love me”......but no word would I hear more,
But regained my chair, and, rocking, crush'd my passion 'gainst the floor;
Even this, dear, did not please him! for with short and snappish word,
“Cease that foolish rocking,” said he, “for 'tis fit I should he heard.”
But regained my chair, and, rocking, crush'd my passion 'gainst the floor;
Even this, dear, did not please him! for with short and snappish word,
“Cease that foolish rocking,” said he, “for 'tis fit I should he heard.”
12
“Since you force me, I must hear you,—there's for me no other choice,”
Spoke I, with a chilling courtesy, and a cold, contemptuous voice;
All astounded, gazed he on me, with a brow of gathering gloom,
Loosed my hand in utter silence—and I proudly left the room.
Spoke I, with a chilling courtesy, and a cold, contemptuous voice;
All astounded, gazed he on me, with a brow of gathering gloom,
Loosed my hand in utter silence—and I proudly left the room.
| Letters of Laura D'Auverne | |